Just Because
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Hookman tag: Dean would keep trying, just because it was Sam.


**Just Because**  
K Hanna Korossy**  
**

Dean stole glances at Sam as he drove, not liking the pinched expression or the way he hadn't stopped rubbing his shoulder. And even though his few comments thus far had been rebuffed, Dean tried again because it was obvious Sam was in pain and needed the distracting.

"How's the arm?"

Sam shrugged one-shouldered, eyes not budging from the road ahead of them. "It's fine." He didn't bother to stop massaging it, instantly negating his answer, and didn't seem to care if his brother knew it. Not a good sign, in Dean's book.

"We have some heat packs in the first aid kit."

"You don't put heat on a fresh injury," Sam answered dully.

"We can stop for a—"

Sam looked at him, hard, and it wasn't an improvement. "Dean, it's fine, okay? Stop worrying."

Yeah, right, helpful advice. Why hadn't he thought of that? Dean considered a comment about pots and kettles, and a reminder of Sam's very white face after that possessed bear had turned on Dean just a few weeks back. The fact that he'd shot the thing and emerged with only a few scratches hadn't kept Sam from not letting Dean out of his sight for the next several hours. But, yeah, just quit worrying, sure, why not?

Because he'd seen the way Sam had looked at Laurie, and the school, and knew the pain wasn't purely physical.

"So," Dean said with genuine faked enthusiasm, "they melted the hook down—all the silver couldn't've gone into that chain. What else do you think they made out of it?"

Sam took a breath, and while Dean was afraid for a moment he'd dodge that question, too, apparently the case wasn't as taboo as his pain. "Obviously something we burned." His head tilted, those brain cells finally engaging. "Unless it was something that got destroyed before we even got there. Considering most of the Hook's previous focuses were men, maybe something like a religious icon or a watch chain, something men would wear?"

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "The last piece of a murderer, and Sorensen gives it to his daughter as a present. Nice."

"He didn't know." But Sam said it stiffly, the momentary distraction gone, subject closing even as Dean watched. He gave himself a mental kick: never should have mentioned Sorenson or his lovely daughter. Dean didn't ask, but he'd have bet good money Sam had kissed her, and been torturing himself with memories of Jess ever since.

Dean drummed an idle rhythm on the steering wheel and watched the trees go by. As a kid, Sam had enjoyed learning about the different native plants and animals wherever they went, but to Dean, trees were mostly just trees. Unless they were haunted, like the woods in West Virginia; then they were kinda cool. But the most interest he'd taken in the areas they'd visited was to scout out the local major league teams. It wasn't the first, or last, thing they'd be different in.

Case in point: he didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, or carry around a lot of baggage from case to case. Sam, Sam packed away enough for a caravan of tractor trailers. So Dean kept trying to lighten the load, because Sam already had enough to carry.

"How 'bout this next job, how do you want to handle it?"

Sam roused again, casting Dean an annoyed glance like he knew what his brother was doing but was unable to come up with an excuse not to answer. "Since all three people disappeared in the apartment, I say we start with research, know what we're getting into first."

Dean scratched his head. "You know how hard it's going to be to research an apartment?"

Sam's gaze pinned him. "You have a better idea?"

A long vacation. Time with the pretty waitress he'd flirted with in Alto Verde. Tracking down Dad. Watching comedies with Sam until he broke down into a laugh and stopped rubbing that stupid shoulder. Talking about what was going on under that dark mop of hair. But Dean just shook his head.

"Fine. I'll hit the libraries, you talk to the neighbors. We can try the apartment tonight when spectral activity's probably highest."

"You think it's a haunting?" Dean asked, surprised.

"People don't usually disappear in hauntings, but yeah, it might be some variation, maybe a malevolent spirit." He still barely looked at Dean, and his voice was flat, but at least he was talking.

"I'll need to restock the salt and the holy water."

He saw Sam turn away out of the corner of his eye and just barely bit his tongue to keep from asking how long any reminder of clergy or college girls was going to elicit this shut-down, keep-out response. Really, it was getting kind of old and, Oprah or not, Dean was not good at this touchy-feely stuff.

But he didn't because he could still remember arriving at the Sorensons the dawn before, intending to pick up Sam and instead finding police and a crime scene, and the unhelpful information that there had been an injury and the victims had been taken to the hospital. And Sam hadn't answered his phone while Dean broke every speed limit driving to the hospital, white-knuckled and alternately preparing himself for and talking himself out of the worst. He remembered the disconcertingly painful relief at seeing Sam, whole and healthy, talking to the sheriff, and was reminded again that while he might have been okay hunting solo once, he wouldn't be anymore.

And so he pasted on his best neutral face and said, "You know what could use a good exorcism? That talking dog in the Taco Bell commercials. Freaks me out—like a dog with a Mexican accent's going to make me want to try their chalupas?"

He saw it, a chink in the armor, the momentary smile, quickly repressed. Not so much amusement as fondness for his brother, but Dean wasn't proud. He'd take what he could get. And he'd just gotten reassurance Sam was still hiding under all that gloom.

Signs appeared along the road announcing the upcoming rest stop, and one of the names caught Dean's eye. He switched lanes, but it wasn't until he was taking the exit that Sam seemed to notice.

"Where're we going?"

"Rest stop," Dean said shortly. "Fill up one tank, empty another. You?"

"No, thanks, I think you can handle both of those on your own," Sam said dryly. "I'm good."

Bathroom humor. Dean's hope increased a few-fold. He got out of the car humming.

He started the pump, gave Sam a quick smile, and dashed into the building. By the time he came out, acquisitions in hand, the tank was full. No one was waiting on them, however, no one else even at the pumps, so Dean ignored it. His hands full, he knocked on Sam's window with an elbow.

His brother looked up, startled. Then his eyes narrowed as he saw what Dean was holding. After a moment of staring and Dean motioning impatiently, Sam rolled the window down. He took the ice pack and settled it against the shoulder, but continued to give the ice cream cone a bewildered look.

"You don't like vanilla anymore?" Dean asked. "I got chocolate if you want that instead." He offered his own cone. Not that he particularly liked vanilla, but he could pretend.

"Dean…it's November. In Indiana."

He raised an eyebrow. "And your point is…?"

Sam finally shook his head, snorting softly. But he propped the ice pack against the seat back, took the cone, and gave it a tentative lick.

Dean relaxed. He'd been half-afraid he was inadvertently treading on another painful memory, some ice cream thing Sam and Jess had shared. He'd blundered into a few of those already, like the chocolate chip cookies he'd picked up as a treat for Sam at a deli, only to have his brother pale and nearly throw up at the sight of them. But it was a childhood memory he'd invoked now, the ice cream they used to get when Dad was in a particularly good mood and there was some extra money, not a frequent convergence. Sam had always liked vanilla; Dean should have known right then and there his little brother would turn out being different.

He gave Sam a grin and pat on the chest, and shut his door, then went to finish up the pump, licking his own ice cream as he went. And yeah, probably it wasn't the best combination, ice cream and an Indiana November, because Dean was shivering by the time he slid into the driver's seat.

But Sam's cone was half gone, and some of the tension had melted from his body, whether from ice or ice cream. And when he gave Dean a sideways glance and a quiet, "Thanks," the warmth took the edge off his chill.

He nodded, not answering, giving Sam his space now that he wasn't pushing Dean away. He'd be ready again when it was needed, when the ice cream was gone and the memories crowded back in. And he'd keep trying.

Because it was Sam, and Dean really didn't need another reason than that.

**The End**


End file.
